Vision
by Misery's-Toll
Summary: Circumstances following Olivia's return to her universe lead her to living underneath the same roof as the Bishops. Peter/Olivia COMPLETE
1. Hallelujah

_**Vision**_

_**by. Misery's-Toll**_

_There was a time you let me know  
What's really going on below  
But now you never show it to me, do you?_

_

* * *

_

The first night she sleeps in what was once intended to be Walter's room, but had ended up a library of sorts after the good doctor had opted to take up residency in the sitting room.

Despite his better judgment, Peter offers Olivia his bed. He knows by the expression on her face that she's taken an almost personal offense at the unintended suggestion that perhaps she is unable to take care of herself. To lighten the mood he inserts a misplaced joke about never letting an opportunity to get a beautiful woman in his bed pass him by. She doesn't smile, and he knows it was in bad taste, given the progression of things that led her to be living with the Bishops. So following an awkward silence, he bids her goodnight and leaves the room.

He goes to bed that night straining his ears for any hint of distress. He is ready to jump out of bed at the first sign of a breakdown to reassure her that everything will be okay (even if maybe it's not his place to do so). But he hears nothing but silence. Not even the creak of floorboards or the shift of heavy hard-backed novels to make room for a pallet on the floor. He wonders if she's even sleeping with blankets or if the hard-ass Olivia Dunham doesn't need blankets in a house that Walter keeps at a constant temperature of 67 degrees. He considers fetching her a blanket or six, but decides that maybe it's in both their best interests to keep a safe distance for awhile. She'll come to him if she needs them badly enough. Not that he thinks she will be coming to him for anything anytime soon.

He discovers the reason for her silence during a 4:00 am bathroom break when he pats across the hallway to find the light from the library flooding across the floorboards. She is awake, if not alert, reading one of many books on preposterous conspiracy theories. A gag gift from Markham, celebrating their rekindled "friendship" thanks to Peter's ridiculous newfound profession in the fringe division.

Despite the urge to relieve himself, he takes a stand in her doorway. And being the ever on-duty FBI agent she is, Olivia immediately realizes his presence.

"Did you know that the moon landing was faked?" she asks with a wry smile, not looking up from her book, "And the Russians were in on it, too."

He's not sure which personality is on the surface at the moment. It would seem like Alternate Olivia if not for the fact that she is still garbed in her work attire, sans blazer. Alternate Olivia would be sprawled out on a stolen comforter in her underwear without a care as to whether it would be Peter or Walter to walk in on her. Maybe it's a mix of the two personalities. He wonders if that's possible. He will have to ask Walter in the morning.

"You know, I'm starting to wonder if maybe some of those conspiracy theories were started by confused citizens from our neighborhood alternate dimension," he says, immediately lacking tact. Perhaps his subconscious would really like to have this conversation _now_ instead of later when Olivia will actually be able to make sense of things. That's the only rationalization he can come up with that explains his sudden foot-in-mouth syndrome.

But Olivia doesn't respond to his unintentional segue into dangerous territory, "Or shape shifters with a sense of humor."

He observes her, and after a few moments of extended silence, she closes the book, her finger inserted between the pages she was reading to mark her place. She doesn't meet his gaze, just allows him to watch her while she stares straight ahead.

"What are you still doing up?" he asks, breaking the precarious comfortability of small talk. He contemplates getting those six blankets and forcing her to at least pretend to nap. He wonders if there's any way he will be able to convince Walter to let her sleep in tomorrow instead of beginning the inevitable brain-invasion at sunrise. Maybe if he enlists Astrid's help they can distract him with pudding pops.

She leans back in the armchair she sits in, raising her arms and stretching her legs, cracking every joint willing to give. Definitely an Alternate Olivia gesture.

"My internal clock is waiting for Frank," she admits with upturned lips, "He was supposed to get back from Texas tonight. I haven't seen him in a month and I always stay up waiting for him the night he returns…"

Peter wants to remind her that after she hadn't seen him in _three_ months, she's seemed less than thrilled to be in his presence since they left the apartment. An apartment that she can now never go back to.

"And that's the only reason?" he asks. Despite not properly acknowledging the discrepancies between the two Olivia's behavior, he _knows_ Olivia Dunham. And he knows that the reason she has not either given in to her exhaustion or made the trek downstairs to start up the coffee maker is not because of a fiancée she will never see again that was never hers. Maybe that's part of it, but it is not the reason. She wants to hurt him, remind him that she was in love with someone that wasn't him, just like he was in love with someone that wasn't her. Did she sleep with this man, Frank? Does she suspect Peter of sleeping with her doppelganger?

She looks him dead in the eye. He's making himself crazy trying to figure out which traits belong to which personality and where they merge. It's hard to remember the differences when he had been so clueless to the fact that he had been sharing his bed with an imposter, "That's the only reason, Peter."

He nods, accepting her unwillingness to confide in him at the moment. Perhaps his even being in here is making things more difficult for her, "Right. I'm going to get you some blankets. In case your internal clock clocks out."

He brings back exactly six. He doesn't know what he's thinking when he does it. But Olivia gives him the stink eye for trying to take care of her again. There was once a time when his behavior would have been okay, he thinks. But then again, maybe that was only with the Fake and he's attaching connotations to the past where he shouldn't be.

He goes to back to a bed that feels wrongly empty and wonders if that space will ever be filled by the real Olivia Dunham.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I do not own "Hallelujah" or "Fringe."_**

**_A/N: Is this a prologue or a one-shot? I have no idea. That depends on whether or not I feel like writing more. For now I'll label it in-progress._**

**_I'm writing this because I'm a bit burned-out on my usual fandoms and I recently began watching Fringe with my father. I was inspired by last night's episode because I was really excited by Kevin Weisman's appearance. I love him to pieces._**

**_Anyway, I'd very much appreciate feedback! Thanks for reading!_**

**_-MT_**


	2. Hang On

**_Vision_**

**_by. Misery's-Toll_**

_Oh now I've found myself  
Wish I was someone else  
My heart is stained with love  
Wish I could fake_

_

* * *

_

She ventures downstairs shortly after sunrise when all 609 pages of _Conspiracies of the 20__th__ Century_ have been at least skimmed, if not read. She considers going out for a jog, but she knows if she disappears without telling either Walter or Peter, they'll most likely have a search squad out for her within the hour. And she doesn't like the idea of having to report her every move like a teenager on a short leash either.

Walter is in the kitchen, preparing a large stack of pancakes while boiling a brownish and probably toxic substance simultaneously. She's not sure if the pancakes are meant for breakfast, or if they're part of the experiment.

When her foot lands on a groaning floorboard, Walter looks up from his project.

"Agent Dunham!" he exclaims with something that sounds a lot like reverence. His eyes tear up and his puckered old face recedes into a wide smile. She doesn't think she's ever been on the receiving end of so much exhilaration.

He shuffles forward in ancient house shoes, and meets her with a tight embrace. She doesn't want him to touch her, not this evil man who stole away the Secretary's son, careless of the catastrophe left in his wake. It doesn't help that he's wearing the Secretary's face. Both personalities inside of her can agree that they were never fond of the man's domineering and cynical demeanor, but the Olivia she had been when she was captured can never forgive him for the torture he put her through. The idea of being alone with this man who is so much like him instills a small amount of fear inside of her, and for that she resents him.

It's strange, though. This Walter is so different. Kinder, softer, crazier. And that makes him a threat.

He fusses over her like an old grandfather while she eats pancakes and what ends up being homemade maple syrup, and some feelings of warmth toward him resurface. Feelings of the past, when she had a family and she knew who was a part of it and who was not. Walter doesn't treat her like she's going to disappear at any moment, and it's a breath of fresh air. He's just happy to have her back, even if she is out of her mind.

It's sweet. But she's not going to start trusting him any time soon.

* * *

She eventually goes to the drugstore, refusing to tell either Walter or Peter where's she is going, or that she's going out at all. It's something she feels a little bit guilty about by the time she makes it to the hair care isle.

She hopes that dying her hair blonde again will make her herself again. But she can't remember which shade she used to pick and she knows that whatever her double was using wasn't working out. It's more frustrating than therapeutic. She doesn't know who she could ask either. Boys will be boys -she thinks that maybe to Peter and Walter blonde is blonde. She could ask Astrid, but then again that might be putting the Junior Agent in an awkward position.

She leaves with three different colors of blonde dye and a few packages of M&Ms. She needs the comfort, and it's one of the few things that ties her to this universe that she can remember (besides Peter, but she doesn't think she's ready to acknowledge him as more than an amicable acquaintance). She doesn't think she's ready to return to the smothering atmosphere of the Bishop's home yet either, despite feeling bad for not letting them know where she is. She needs this limited independence.

She just walks. She walks and walks until she's really quite sure that if she doesn't make it back to the house soon, she will pass out. She feels sick and sugar-coated on the inside from all the M&Ms that didn't make this world feel any closer to home, and she really misses Frank and Charlie and Lee. The fact that she will never see Charlie again feels like a punch to the gut, and she wonders if the Frank and Lee from this world are still alive, or anything like their alternate selves or if she'll ever meet them. She wishes she could remember the Charlie from this side, beyond his death. But all she remembers are M&Ms (no yellows -though the reason why eludes her) and _Peter_. And God, does she wish Peter didn't feel so important.

But he's sitting there, waiting for her on the porch when she gets back. There is no franticness about him, just a speculative guiltiness.

"You waiting for me?" she asks, trying to sound more playful than accusatory, but she's not sure which comes across.

"Just taking a few minutes to get away from Walter and his homemade syrup," he replies with forced lightheartedness. He moves to get up, but she intercepts him.

"Sit," she orders and sits beside him, but doesn't say anything more.

It's strange, having him sit beside her without causing her to doubt her sanity. It allows her to just bask in the feelings of safety and rightness he gives her. All the same, she can't get close to him, not now. Not when he spent the past three months with a woman who was probably a better representation of herself than she is. And she can't even blame him for not seeing the difference between them, not when she barely can. Not when she'd allowed Charlie's death to slip passed unnoticed after they'd been partners for years. But she has all these feelings of resentment and no clear enemy to take them out on.

"This is the first time I've seen you actually look like you," Peter says abruptly, finally breaking the silence, "You've been looking at me -at the world- with her eyes ever since we left your apartment."

She wants to feel angry at him. She wants to think_ how dare you act like you can tell the difference_, but she just feels resigned. Like maybe this is what her life will be from now on, her friends and her family apologizing and telling her why they should have known, all the little discrepencies, when she just wants to tell them _God damn it, I am her._

She doesn't know what makes Peter feel like it's okay to dive into this conversation. She's too tired, too confused, and too angry, but he continues anyway, "I should have known she was a fake."

"Fake?" she asks, the word bitter on her tongue. She doesn't know how she can possibly make Peter, make anyone understand that she is not the Olivia Dunham they knew. She is, for all intents and purposes, the other Olivia, but with a little less malice and a little more confusion, "Peter, there was nothing fake about her. I lived her life; I was _her_. Tell me, Peter, do you think of yourself as a fake?"

He grimaces and gives her what she thinks is maybe the first real glimpse into what he's felt since she shut him out the night before. He _was_ trying to give her space, like she wanted. She just doesn't know how to read it anymore. How did the other Olivia ever figure her way around this?

"Sometimes," he admits, but in a typical Peter fashion decides to run away, "What's in the bag?"

"Hair dye," she responds in a clipped tone. She wants to growl and storm off and go to bed, but if he refuses to get angry then so does she.

He ignores her obvious agitation and fishes through her purchases without permission. "Why so many?"

For a moment she considers ignoring him for regarding her so impassively. The seconds tick by without response before she sighs and gives in, "I can't remember what color I used to prefer."

He quickly examines the three boxes before deciding on one and placing it in her hands. Noting her unconvinced expression, he says with all sincerity, "I made a mistake before, but I won't make the same mistake twice, Olivia Dunham. I will help you figure out who you are."

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe or Hang On. Those belong to their respective owners._**

**_A/N: I don't really have much to say. I made a Fringe video on YouTube, username ostpi. If you wanna watch...I'm not so great at making music videos, but I'm working on it._**

**_Thank you for all the reviews I received last chapter. I never expected to get more than maybe one or two tops. I'm hoping this chapter lives up to your expectations._**

**_-MT_**


	3. Somewhere a Clock is Ticking

_**Vision**_

_**By. Misery's-Toll**_

_I've got this feeling that there's something that I missed  
Don't you breathe  
Something happened that I never understood  
__You can't leave  
__Every second dripping off my fingertips  
__Wage your war_

_

* * *

_

_**This takes place before chapters one and two.**_

_**

* * *

**_

Her head breaks the surface and she gulps in as much air as her lungs can hold before she's snatched away by the undertow.

_Shit._ She thinks. _I miscalculated_.

* * *

She wakes inside a small cabin that vaguely reeks of mildew. She's lying on a low bunk, and from the steady rocking motions that cause her stomach to lurch, she can figure that she is more than likely on a boat. She immediately reaches for her gun, but it isn't tucked away in the holster where she left it. Was it swept away in the current? She had her backup knife tucked away in her boot, but whoever brought her here took off her shoes and confiscated the weapon. Perhaps that's where her gun went as well.

She laces up her boots and creeps out of the room as silently as she can. The door groans upon disturbance, but the old boat whines and whimpers with every undulation, and any creak from her is nothing to be alarmed over. There are few people on the lower deck. Fishermen, not trained in anything close to guarding questionable persons, and easy to avoid. When she throws open the doors to the upper deck, the sun is just rising over the city, orange gleaming off the silver skyscraper windows, filling it with warmth. The boat is docked, a few men unloading their limited catches.

She hopes to slip away unnoticed during the bustling activity, but with no other women on the ship, she thinks that might be difficult. While trying to sneak way, an old man with a withered face and silver-streaked hair notices her. He frowns upon sighting her, his nose and ears pinked from the chill. She's freezing, clothes no longer soaked, but still quite damp. The old man approaches and does not offer his hand or his name, "Who are you?"

"Olivia Dunham, FBI," she introduces herself, unsure of whether or not to use her real name when the Secretary could have eyes and ears everywhere, but she needs to use her position of authority, "Where are my gun and knife?"

"Well, Miss Dunham, one of my men pulled you out of the harbor early this morning. You had no identification on you, so out of the safety of my men I confiscated your weapons. I plan on turning them in to the authorities, and if you are who you say you are, you should have no trouble getting them back," he says, voice youth-parched and gruff, "Now, I run a respectable operation and I don't want any trouble from you, you hear? I've called the police and an ambulance to take you to the hospital. God knows how long you were in that water before we pulled you out."

"I understand, sir, but I don't have time for this," she refuses, working her best authoritative tone, though it's difficult when her teeth are chattering so violently. She needs to get out of here, to find her alternate before she runs out of time. She can work without a gun, but it will make things much more difficult, "I'm on a very important mission and I've already lost valuable time to unforeseen circumstances. I'm clearly not sick and I swear I'm not a threat to you or any of your men."

"I'm sorry, Miss Dunham, but my hands are tied," the old man says, holding up his hands as if in evidence.

Fine, she decides. Then, she'll do this the hard way.

She makes a break for it, ignoring the his surprised and enraged shouts. She jumps the gap between the boat and the dock with rigid limbs, barely clearing the cut. She dodges men with crates and nets, none of whom try to stop her, just watch in a state of astonishment. She doesn't stop running until she's well away from where the authorities are soon to gather. She can't let them hold her back from her mission.

* * *

She has no money for bus fare or a taxi, no gun for bargaining (threatening), and no driver's license or car. So she hitchhikes. She's lucky she's pretty enough to be picked up, but stony enough not to be messed with.

The man drops her off at a gas station, a city away from the Massachusetts border, and kindly gives her all the money in his billfold (which is unfortunately only eight dollars). She uses almost four dollars on a sandwich and a bottle of water that she devours greedily. She spends another three dollars to finish making it out of the state.

By the time she makes it back to Boston, to her home, night has almost fallen. She really wishes she had her gun as she approaches the apartment. It was her only real guarantee that her double wouldn't shoot her on sight.

She scans the parking lot, just to make sure that her doppelganger has no visitors. She finds the key in its usual hiding place, waiting for her. She enters the apartment silently and locks the door behind her. She knows the other Olivia is here.

And so she appears, Desert Eagle in hand, safety off, pointed directly at her, "I wasn't expecting you."

Olivia stands her ground, posture lax, her only option without a weapon of her own, "Well maybe you shoulda been. Your job is done here and they're sending an assassin here to kill you. They want us both dead."

"Yeah? Got any proof?" her blonde counterpart demands. It's so strange, like staring in a mirror. She feels like the same person. The only blip is the tiny part of her brain that insists this is her home.

"No. But they're coming for us. And you need to get home, to Frank and Charlie and Lee. Tell them what's happening -they'll protect you," she urges, "Frank is coming home tonight from Texas, if he hasn't already. He'll want to see you."

"I don't need to be protected," her doppelganger laughs derisively. Suddenly a realization hits her and her eyes narrow, "You were me. They didn't keep you locked away for experiments like they said they would. They let you loose. They programmed you. Tell me, did you sleep with him? Did you make Frank moan my name, like I made Peter?"

_Peter._ She hadn't even thought of him, not since she'd made the jump. Since then, she'd had nothing on her mind except the need to save her other half. But for some reason, the idea of this other Olivia Dunham sleeping with the Secretary's son hurts her heart more than she can comprehend.

"Oh trust me. Whatever he moaned, it was _all me,"_ she smirks, inwardly looking for any weakness in the other Olivia's concentration or stance.

Her alternate self just smiles condescendingly, "Just look at you. You're like my clone right down to the little ticks. You let them _brainwash_ you."

Suddenly, the door behind them shatters and Olivia dives to the floor to avoid the bullet that explodes from her duplicate's weapon that nails the shape shifter on the other side in the forehead. Olivia looks up through a curtain of red hair as her alternate grins sardonically.

"I told you. I don't need protect-" she's interrupted by weapons cocked, and the room floods with shape shifters emerging from the shadows.

"Shit."

Olivia narrows her eyes, clamps her fingers in a vice around her doppelganger's ankle, and the apartment bursts into vicious flames. The world flashes white, and then they're in the alternate apartment, untouched by madness, and Frank is standing there in his boxers slack-jawed, the mug he was carrying smashed on the tile.

"Olivia…?"

Her head throbs with every thrum of her pulse, and she stumbles into a standing position. She wishes he would hold her one last time, "Goodbye, Frank." She shoves the other Olivia, _his_ Olivia into his arms, and vanishes without even a vestige of proof she was ever there.

* * *

She's pulled from the blackness by a slap to the face. Her skull is jarred against the floor and her eyes roll back into her head. She can't breathe. It's dark and she can't breathe.

"Where is she?" a man's voice filters into her brain through the roar of the flames engulfing her apartment.

…_Peter?_

She chokes out a gasping wheeze as she's hoisted into someone's arms. Someone else is holding her feet. The room soars passed her. Her head loll's into a woman's shoulder, tears from the heat oozing into her hair. She zones out for awhile, caught up somewhere between waking and sleeping until she feels the shocking, wet asphalt beneath her.

The man from before shakes her roughly and stars burst behind her eyes. The night is on fire. "Where is she? Is she in there?"

"Peter!" she chokes out, "Peter." She tries to hug him, but he thrusts her away at arm's length. Liquid streams down her cheeks in earnest.

"Where is the real Olivia Dunham?" he demands, gripping her harms too tightly. She digs her fingers into his arms just as hard and tries to blink her eyes clear. Her head is still fogged, but she can think, just barely. She's coming back to herself.

"It's me, Peter. I don't know how to prove it to you, but I _am_ Olivia."

* * *

He sees it in her eyes. That familiar expression caught somewhere between being haunted and guilty for not being strong enough. He crushes her against his chest and kisses the top of her head. She looks up at him with wide, glazed eyes, stinking of smoke. The smoke burns hot in their chests and the sirens of the ambulances fill the air like a welcome home chorus.

"God, 'Livia," he sobs against her, "I'm so sorry."

* * *

They ask her later, "What happened to the other Olivia?"

She just stares off into space for a long time. She doesn't respond until they've already accepted they won't get an answer from her and Astrid has opened her mouth to say something reassuring. Olivia doesn't care and interrupts, "She's dead."

* * *

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Fringe or Somewhere a Clock is Ticking.**_

_**A/N: I hope it doesn't seem amazingly farfetched that Peter could just look into Olivia's eyes and know that it's her. I think it was my inner fangirl wanting it to happen. If you hate it...whoops.**_

Thanks again for the wonderful response on the last chapter. A few people brought up that Olivia is a natural blonde, and you're probably right…and while I could probably go back and fix it if I could think of something to replace it with, I can't think of anything. So let's just say I used a little creative license? Feel free to shoot me.

_**Also, I made another video on YouTube. Username still ostpi. It's for the song "Hang On" by Seether.**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

_**-MT**_


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